


The Virtuous One

by pettiot



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Betrayal, Inquisition, blindfold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22303504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Vossler confronts all the Judge Magisters at the moment of his betrayal of (or for?) Dalmasca.
Kudos: 2





	The Virtuous One

In the darkness, Vossler stares full into the face of his enemy.

He cannot feign honor. Self-deception proves a fragile mask. He came with good intentions, and they claimed his sight, his sword and his dignity with a treachery as base as his expectations. He is left to contemplate his own absurdity.

He thinks to succeed where better men failed.

He thinks to succeed here, to stop _another's_ servitude from winning Ashelia back her bloodright. He swallows bile, choked at the thought of Ashelia looking on _another's_ face with hopeful eyes. Envy aches, drives him, brought him here, envy that _another_ might possess what Vossler lacks, an honest intent to this backwards purpose of negotiation for a country already lost, an honor turned foul in the face of such fairness.

Envy is an insatiable desire that eats him wholly. He will win true here, because of what he would take for Ashelia.

For Dalmasca's sake. He corrects himself.

The first Judge Magister matches the excess of his speculation only with his avarice for answers.

Questions ebb when the anguish rises, to rise when the latter falls. The Judge finds delight in each sound, word or otherwise. Vossler imagines him storing each fragile admittance like treasures to be sold, used, bartered.

"But do you not see the disloyalty of your actions, the deliberate betrayal, so much so that one might call your very presence here a treason to your vagrant majesty?"

"No treason," Vossler pants, "for what self-gain does this earn me but the restored honor of my country?"

"You know we cannot restore the past you imagine. I read only treachery in your desires, violence in your eyes, trickery in your intent. You would manipulate your Queen to achieve your own ends."

"My ends achieve her betterment," Vossler growls, "the betterment of _Dalmasca_ , so there is no treason there."

The Judge remains blithe. "That song is sung by every servant who hungers for their master's greatness to be their own to wield."

The second Judge Magister breaks him with a dogged fury so familiar that Vossler strives to match that armored might, even blinded, even bare.

A fight like this, flesh against steel, is more honest than Vossler's expectations. This Judge treats with him as a man, even with the heel of his boot on Vossler's neck. The Judge's touch leaves bruises that threaten Vossler's darkness with spiraling ferocity, a conflagration of angry blood bursting in the absence of vision.

"What do you think to gain here with your vile impatience with true legality? You will win no grounds, not against the full lawful right and might of Archades' sovereignty over that territory of Dalmasca."

"I seek true justice," Vossler snarls, spits, "for Dalmasca's people."

"Your justice reeks of perversion, spite, _revenge_. I would name your self-interest a greater motivation than justice." The Judge's left hand finds Vossler's throat, a leather grip as cold as the Judge's voice. "What I will do in the name of Archades bears no bounds, not blood nor lust nor friendship over the honor such a nation deserves. I doubt your devotion to your Dalmasca would prove near as resolute as mine own to _my_ heartland."

The Judge spares no effort in delving that foundation of Vossler's intent.

The third Judge Magister reeks of an inhume fixation bound to the bones of a man. His viciousness knows no hume boundaries, his pervasion no restraint, no satiation.

"--for Dalmasca," Vossler chokes, spits, rages, but answers are not what this Judge seeks.

"For Dalmasca, you fool? You fool me not, for you – you are a man after my own heart. In your heart, there is room for only lust, a hungry loyalty, a sole selfish devotion. One obsession. Yours does not lie with Dalmasca."

"Vile," Vossler coughs, "vile imprecation –"

The Judge's mailed fingers invade Vossler's mouth, to stretch his jaw open.

"Do you want to fuck your princess, Azelas, or have you already?"

Vossler's breath comes savage through broken lips, to match the Judge's hollow rasp.

Then there is Judge Magister Drace.

Her honour is bound so to Archades that Vossler finds himself almost welcoming her company despite her task. She is honest to a fault, that it almost blinds her to the falseness in others. In that she is as familiar as an old friend. Vossler could have admired her in better circumstances. Instead he is left wanting in her presence, that his honour be as pure as hers, his intent as honest as she.

Her diligence yet spares him no pain, though it causes her some. For her, duty is as unbreakable as a natural law.

"I admit I came," he says into her arms, ragged, "for Ashelia's sake—"

"Dishonesty ill-suits you," she states, unflinching. "But we will use what you give notwithstanding your motivation."

Her disregard scars him.

The final Judge Magister wields only his temperance, a greater weapon than the cruelty of the others.

Temperance proves an intolerable thing in the hands of a man who can turns words to bare their dark side to the sun, to bare the wriggling, earth-wet wretchedness beneath. Vossler can fight no rear-guard action, can defend no wall with weapons he is ill-suited to wield. He has never honed his words as he has his blade.

Vossler stares into a yawning void. The fall surrounds him whichever the direction he would turn, to admittance or denial.

"I would say," says the Judge, "that you willingly would sell her country, to win her a crown. But that is not the case."

Such temperance that the Judge Magister's voice carries only the barest trace of pity, and no contempt.

"So willingly I would sell everything," Vossler rasps, "to win _her_."

Vossler yields by choice, to kneel. It is what he came here to do.

"Basch fon Ronsenberg proved far stronger than you, Captain. A shame then, that I must make do with so flawed a servant here."

Vayne's voice is mellifluous, calm despite the bitterness his words cause. Vossler's knuckles scrape stone, an impotent fist.

"I serve for Dalmasca's sake, Solidor."

The lie burns now, when the truth has been forced onto him.

"Use whatever salve your pride requires," Vayne says, and removes the blindfold.  


  



End file.
